


The Ward

by Slytherin_vikiss



Series: Antony and Lysandra through time [4]
Category: A Courtesan of Rome (Visual Novel), Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Death, F/M, Violence, italian ranaissance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22338682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slytherin_vikiss/pseuds/Slytherin_vikiss
Summary: After her brother gambles the family’s fortune away, Lysandra is offered as payment to an italian noble and sees herself forced to move all the way across her beloved France to the Tuscany.There, she discovers she didn’t know her father as well as she thought, and that there is no escaping the family’s business.With no-one else to do it, she must raise to the task to redeem the family’s name and avenge her father.
Relationships: Marc Antony/Main Character (A Courtesan of Rome), Marc AntonyxLysandra
Series: Antony and Lysandra through time [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1293167
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

  
  


Victus had known, deep down and despite of his efforts to fool himself, that it would all end like this, with him bleeding out in some narrow, empty street.

His clothes usually kept him too hot, but at the moment he was glad, for he could feel the cold trying to creep up on him.

Through some small cracks on the windows, he could faintly see some villagers taking peeks at him. None would come out to aid him, he knew, but couldn’t find it in himself to blame them.

He looked up to the dark sky and thought of his children. He hoped they’d be alright. There was so much he still wanted to say to them, things he wanted to teach them.

He didn’t prepare them, and that alone would be enough to not let him rest peacefully.

He still needed to teach Cingerix how to manage the family’s business; not that the boy didn’t know, he did, but Victus felt like he still had too much to learn.

And Lysandra. He never taught her of their family’s history, of their real intent and allegiances. He didn’t want to, but he knew Cingerix couldn’t do it and Lysandra was strong enough for them both, although the thought of putting her life at risk distressed him greatly. 

It was the right thing to do. The Subercaseaux had served for generations upon generations, even though Victus would rather serve the enemy. And it was because he wanted to serve the others that he found himself in such predicament, bleeding out upon the cold earth of a village he didn’t know, far from his children.

God, he failed them both.

He only wanted to protect them, he wanted them to have happy, easy lives. He kept telling himself he’d do the right thing and start their training the next day. He did it for more than ten years.

He would have cried in that moment, but he was too tired.

Maybe Cingerix could make it, but he knew they would all come for his Lysandra sooner rather than later. Who would get to her first, he’d never know.

He did something rare then, and sent a prayer, that no-one would ever find her, but if such was too much to ask, then that the  _ right  _ people would find her.

Everything went darker and darker, which was funny, since it was midnight already.


	2. I

**The Ward**

**I**

**The Infuriating And Alluring Monsieur Auditore**

  
  
  


**Spring, 1473**

**On the outskirts of Paris**

Lysandra thrust her sword against the dummy and fell to the floor on top of it with a grunt. With another similar sound, she stood up, pulling her weapon out of the dummy and wiping the sweat from her forehead.

She moved the dummy aside with her foot, inspecting it. It’d be much better practice if it had some sort of armor over it, even a cheap one, but they couldn’t afford it, that’s how low they had sunk in the previous six months since her father’s death.

Tired, she made those thoughts aside and turned, looking up at the open window from where her younger brother watched. There was a man next to him, and even from the distance she could tell that no only was he all clad in dark clothes, but he was also quite tall and had dark hair.

Her face, red from all the exercise, went even redder in resentment. Her stupid fucking brother and his stupid fucking expenses.

She headed inside, the sound of her boots against the stone floor soft and with a clicking sound to it.

She entered the house and took the stairs, almost running up, desperate to get it over with.

She pushed a few strands of hair behind her ears, the rest secure in a long braid, which had looked elegant in the morning when she did it and now probably looked terrible.

Down the hall, now naked from the deep red carpets, she found them by the window still, talking. 

Her brother was a bit of a mess, but he seemed presentable enough, although tense. The other man seemed relaxed, with his leg up on a chair, arms resting on the knee, and an infuriating smile on his face as Cingerix said something to him.

He chuckled, shaking his head, and Lysandra sped up before her brother did something stupid. He had lost his wits after their father’s body showed up at their doorstep.

She wanted to blame him, but couldn’t.

The man saw her and his smirk widened as he stood straight.

“Ah, there she is! The famous Lysandra.” he greeted her, walking towards her with long, unworried steps. His voice was rather rich, and she wished she hadn’t liked the sound of it. He bowed before her, but she felt it like some sort of insult. “Antony Auditore at your service, Madonna.”

“Hello.” she greeted, as politely as she could. Turning to Cingerix, she asked: “When do I leave?”

He scratched the back of his head.

“Tomorrow.”

She frowned.

“Tomorrow?”

“There is a nasty storm on the way, signora; I’d hate to see you trapped in it.”

“I wouldn't mind.”

He chuckled.

“Of course you wouldn’t.” he elbowed Cingerix. “She’s just like you said, but you failed to praise her looks.”

“I said she was pretty.” Cingerix mumbled, looking down.

“That doesn’t make her justice.”

Lysandra rolled her eyes, pretending her ego hadn’t been busted up.

“I’m standing right here.”

Antony turned to her once more and opened his mouth, but she turned her back to him.

“I hope your rooms are to your liking, monsieur Auditore.”

She left quicker than she had arrived, before she killed them both.

* * *

  
  


She had one of the few servants they still had let her brother know she was feeling indisposed for dinner and wouldn't be attending. In truth, she still felt too hurt and betrayed to sit with him and her new owner.

She sneaked her way to her father's rooms instead, quickly hiding when she heard something approaching and slipping in through the heavy doors without producing a sound.

The place remained intact, despite it now being Cingerix’s right to make it its own. Perhaps it was the way in which the siblings respected their, or a small childish hope that he’d return.

He wouldn’t. They had both laid eyes upon its rotting body upon its return; he’d been recognizable enough.

The room was dark in its colours, but even darker at night.

Like a cat, she easily found her way about in the dark, tip toeing around the bed, fingers running over the sheets, getting caught in some dust.

She sat down in a luxurious armchair by the wall, a small table with an empty flower pot in between a seating accommodation just like it. Looking around, she sighed tremourosly.

She’d never see those rooms again, she knew it, but what she didn’t know was that if that was frightening or liberating.

There was definitely a part of her that felt gaunt and alone, not just due to her father’s passing but to the disappointment her brother bought her.

He had always been too carefree, and she could understand how. His position had been more privileged than hers since before his birth, and that had only been accentuated as he grew. Victus had raised them the same, but he was the only one who ever saw them as equals, which hadn’t helped the siblings. Cingerix grew to believe, like many other men she had met, that the world would bow to his every need and whim, but she couldn’t fully blame him. She just wished he’d been smarter.

She just wished, as horrible as it was, that he and their father could trade places.

Lysandra shook her head, scaring such thoughts away and closing her eyes, fingers pressing against the bridge of her nose.

Bending a little sideways, she jumped, a gush of cold air hitting her neck. Looking to her left, she narrowed her eyes and focused, and almost jumped into her feet when she noticed a crack.

It was odd, how she could see in the dark like a cat, but her father had always said it was a gift,...one she should keep hidden, just to be safe. Lysandra had no complains; the last thing she wanted was to be accused of witchcraft.

She stood in front of the wall, staring right at the crack, and pressed her hands against the stone. It moved back heavily, startling her.

Swallowing hard, she examined the small compartment. It was twice her size, but not very deep. Looking down she saw a heavy looking trunk that almost reached her hips, and she sunk to her knees without preamble and pushed it open.

A piece of dark fabric laid at the top, and she hastily made it aside, encountering another, but of a thicker material, and white of colour.

She took it carefully, lifting it up till the filtered moonlight shone upon it. Placing it atop the bed, she resumed her rummaging, extracting the sleeves and a dark cape with a leather shoulder pad attached to it. Taking her time, she extracted a thick belt. She stood and walked to the bed, making everything else aside and placing the belt upon it. It was of leather as well, the thick straps running up in an intricate braid. She arranged it, and stared down at a massive iron buckle, shaped like a triangle, or perhaps even an ‘A’. There were some details engraved on it, all celt looking if she was correct.

She had no idea what that thing was, and fascinated by it, she barely managed to stray her eyes long enough to walk back to the trunk and keep looking through Victus’ belongings.

There were trousers and boots, a sword and a strange looking gauntlet. Underneath all that, she found more: an old looking shield and a ring. The shield couldn’t have been her father’s, for it seemed to fragile to be of his age; said instrument was at least two centuries older than her. The paint had faded, but she could make up the outline of a cross, just like the one of the ring.

She sat on the floor, rolling the ring over her hand. She knew that piece of jewelry; she had seen it on her father’s hand as a child; he wore it every day, with pride in front of unknown people, with shame in front of his children. One day, when Lysandra was near her ninth birthday, he stopped wearing it, but she didn’t ask what had happened to it. The thing had bought her father such suffering, she didn’t want to cause him anymore. She assumed he had thrown it into the depths of some river, or that he had sold it, even gifted it to a random beggar.

She tried it on, and of course it was too big. It slipped down her finger and fell with a grunt sound.

She sighed, absent-mindedly scratching the back of her head and messing up her caul.

“Should you even be here?”

She looked up and glared at Monsieur Auditore, hating that he had managed to sneak up on her. Nobody did that.

“What are you doing here?” she snapped, then took a deep breath. “Forgive me; I didn’t mean to sound so crass--”

“I believe you did, but no matter; I’ll let it slide this time.” he said, shrugging before walking in with a candle in hand. He nodded towards the bed. “What do you have there?”

“You can see it? In this darkness?”

“Not very well, I’m afraid. You?”

“I can see perfectly.”

“Truly?” he seemed almost impressed, and then he grinned. “Ah! You’re like a cat then.”

Lysandra almost smiled.

“Father used to say that.”

He sat on the bed, making the fabric aside. With legs slightly spread, he placed his hands on his knees and nodded to her.

“What is that by your feet, Gattina?”

“An old ring. I thought he’d thrown it away.” she picked it up and handled it to him. 

In the dark, his eyes seemed to glimmer as he took the ring from her, fingers brushing, and inspected it. Lysandra retracted her hand to her chest, resting over the cross that hung on her neck. His hand was warm, of course, but the mundane touch had sent a thrill, something exhilarating, down her arm and throughout her body, and she looked up, biting her lip. God damned this man; she had barely spoken two words to him and she wanted him.

He didn’t move, staring at her in the dark, like he could see her as perfectly as she could see him. An image came to her head, of a well lit room and Monsieur Auditore across from her from an atrium, in roman clothes laughing with some men, looking at her across the room and smiling like they shared a secret.

Lysandra broke eye contact, playing about with her long sleeves. She didn’t like them; she preferred the italian tight sleeves, even if they made her security more precarious. Through her eyelashes, she looked up at Monsieur Auditore, wondering if showing favour for the Florentine fashion would earn her a gentler treatment.

He inspected the ring with some disdain and looked at her.

“Do you know what this means?”He asked, raising the ring. He then nodded towards the pieces of garment on the bed. “Or this?”

Lysandra gave him a blank look.

“They are my father’s clothes.”

He huffed.

“So you truly know nothing.” he mumbled, standing up and dropping the ring back in the truck. He nodded to the bed once. “Pack all that in your trunks, sword included. You may need them.”

She frowned, standing up.

“Why?”

“My father will explain.”

“I don’t want to wait that long.”

He smirked.

“Most people don’t always get what they want, Gattina.”

“I do.” she snapped.

“So do I.” he all but purred, taking a step towards her.

Huffing, she turned around and bolted the room, before she did something she’d regret, like slapping him, or even worse, pushing him into the bed and climbing atop of him.

* * *

Even though Lysandra had the tendency to wake up early, that day she was up long before the sun, being pulled up by a servant.

She rubbed her eyes and shivered against the cold morning air, the last remains of winter still fighting back against the spring. Her feet touched the cold floor and she shivered again.

Another servant walked in and greeted her, placing a tray with her food on top of a table near the fire.

She took the thin gauntlet her father had made for her and tied it to her left forearm, dagger in place, and tied another to her calf, under the uneasy gaze of the servants, who no doubt disapproved but were too afraid to voice it.

With the help of the two barely older women, Lysandra dressed into a clean linen chemise, next a kirtle and finally the dress, of a light blue with golden lacing. She stood in silence while they caged her up, and rose her arms enough afterwards so they could put on the sleeves. 

Lysandra stared at her arm, and then at the dress she was wearing. It was simple, not very ornamented, but clearly in the italian fashion. She had used most of the hidden money from the allowance her father used to give her to have a few dresses made, and decided that it wouldn’t hurt to start adapting since that moment. Also, a part of her hoped to gain the favour of her new guardians, and turning up her nose to their clothes wouldn’t help her with that, nor with fitting in.

Ignoring the sting of regret upon remembering what little money she now had left, she held the sleeve while the servant tied it.

“Could you send someone to wake my brother? I’d hate to leave without seeing him.” she said to the other girl, who scurried away with small but sharps ‘clickity clacks’.

After being helped into her shoes, she rejected a pair of patten.

“There’ll be no need. I’ll spend most of the journey inside a carriage, I’m sure.” she rose a hand, stopping the servant dead in her tracks and heading to the chair by the fire. Taking a seat, she grabbed an apple. Her preference for fruits in the morning was something every Subercaseaux seemed to share.

“Would you like something?” she turned to the servant, who was combing through her hair.

The girl’s blue doe eyes widened in terror.

“What?”

“Food. Would you like some? I won’t eat all this.” she offered, making a gesture with her hand. Usually, she wouldn’t care to share, but she felt guilty for all the people employed by her father, now under Cingerix’s service. If her brother kept going down the same road, these people would be out of a job just like she was now out of a home.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly--”

“Please, I insist.”

After some hesitation -which threatened to get to Lysandra’s thin patience--, the servant took a loaf of bread and shily bit into it.

With a fake, bright smile, Lysandra turned back to the fire and let the woman work on her hair, twisting it out of her face and up her head, laying it against the skull with delicacy, letting the rest fall free in dark curls, shiny thanks to her oils. Lysandra handed the servant a small coif cap of a light gold, with a beautiful sun embroidered in it, and didn’t move as it was pinned into place at the very back of her head. She hadn’t planned on wearing it, but she had a feeling she’d encounter bad weather and wanted to keep the top of her head as tamed as possible.

She may play in the mud and fight with blades, but she was also quite proud of her looks, and wished have the ability to remain so.

Finally, the other servant returned, flustered and arranging her skirts. Lysandra rolled her eyes.

“Well?” she snapped, standing up. With how long it took the poor woman behind her to finish dressing her all on her own, she was already done breaking fast.

“Your brother is awake, and so is his friend.” she said, trying not to giggle.

She meant that Auditore sniffing rat. Lysandra crossed her arms, almost jealous.

“I hope you were of some service to Monsieur Auditore, seeing as you weren’t of any to me.”

The servant at the door paled, and the one behind her snickered.

“I--”

“Nevermind.” she looked away, mentally steeling herself. She suddenly realized that she truly was leaving her father’s house, to never come back. “Tell them I’m ready. Leave me alone for a moment.”

The women scurried away, quietly closing the door behind them, and Lysandra took one last look. Not that it mattered; sooner or later, she’d probably forget what her room looked like, how it felt when the sun began to rise and it crept up her face each morning, or how there was always a well stocked fire during the colder days, that invited her to stay in just a little longer.

By a window, she looked out into the fields. She couldn’t see it in the distance, but knew that the city walls were half a day’s ride, and her mind almost didn’t fail to conjure them up.

She watched the dark fields, and scrunched up her nose at the men waiting by a carriage at the front. They didn’t look like regular guards, and despite how little she knew Monsieur Auditore, she wouldn’t be surprised if those men turned out to be hired mercenaries.

She turned to the room, looking from one place to the other, mentally assuring herself that she had indeed packed everything she needed.

Forcing all sentimentality out, she abandoned the room without one look back, kicking her childhood underneath the bed.

* * *

Cingerix stood shamefully by the front doors, his hands together at the front, eyes to his boot clad feet.

Lysandra felt anger at the sight of him, but he was still her baby brother, so she walked up to him and took his hands in hers.

“Cingerix;” she called, but he didn’t meet her eyes. “brother, look at me, please.”

He did, and in that moment she remembered just how young he was. There weren’t many years in between the siblings, but yet Cingerix was much younger in all the other aspects.

“I’m sorry, Ly--”

“Don’t apologize.” she said. Apologizing wouldn’t fix what he had done, it wouldn’t redeem him in her eyes nor in their father’s memory, but there was really no point. The song had been sung, and at least, this took off some of the weight of their debts. “Just promise me you’ll do better from now on. No more games, no more extravagant expenses.” she sought his tear streaked eyes, blue with dashes of grey like their father’s “You need to restore the family now, if not for me then for father.”

Cingerix nodded vigorously, pulling her in for a hug. He was crushing her, but she didn’t care.

“I will. I promise.”

She didn’t believe him, but she hugged him back nonetheless and closed her eyes, pressing her face to his shoulder.

Everyone around waited silently, at a respectful distance, but Lysandra could hardly forget about them.

Still, it was hard to let go of her brother, and only in that moment did it truly dawn on her that she was parting from the only thing left of her family. She never had many marriage expectations, -with being a bastard, the daughter of an egyptian, ‘if the rumors were true’ as she heard people say when they recognized her on her father’s arm-- but she had counted on staying with her father and brother for the remaining of her days. She had refused to admit the possibility of anything else, and despite the signs, she had also refused to acknowledge her brother’s inability to take over the family’s name and not smudge it too much.

She kissed his cheek and parted from him, holding his hands in hers.

“I will write.” she promised, squeezing his hands and letting them go, her own falling flat to her sides.

Cingerix nodded.

“Maybe I can visit in the future.”

He wouldn’t, but that was alright.

With a strengthless smile, she caressed his soft cheek and walked down the stairs to the carriage. 

Monsieur Auditore waited outside, his back resting on the closed door, a leg flexed, the dirty boot pressing against it and arms crossed. He scandalously looked her up and down, and by the way his eyes glimmered for a moment, she knew he had noticed her choice in clothing.

“Careful, Gattina, you’ll steal the attention from the other ladies.”

“Can you stop?”

He offered her a hand and she took it vaguely, not wanting the support as she climbed into the carriage. Making herself as comfortable as she could, she smoothed down her skirts and stared agape as the man climbed in after her.

He shrugged, looking positively devilish.

“I don’t feel like riding today.” he offered as poor excuse.

Pursing her lips, she turned to the window and waved at her brother one last time.

The carriage began moving, and a lump formed in her throat as she leaned back. She stared straight ahead at the seat, but not at Monsieur Auditore.

“So, the journey will be long. Would you like to get acquainted with one another?”

“I’d prefer to hang myself, thank you very much.”

He chuckled.

“We’ll stop at the next abandoned tower then.”

* * *

The ride wasn’t smooth at all, the wheels encountering small rocks and twigs every few moments.

The confinement was slowly driving her mad, but Lysandra did her best to stay calm. Outside the carriage, the sky was of a light grey, the sun fighting its way to break through, letting her know it was midday.

She shot Antony -who was sitting across from her and looked quite smug-a sideways glance before looking out once more.

She cleared her throat and played dumb.

“Is there anything I can do for you, signora?”

She turned her head to him, looking down at her plain blue skirt, seeming aloof.

“Well, now that you mention it, Monsieur Auditore--”

“Antony, please.”

She nodded once.

“Now that you mention it, Antony; do you think it’d be possible to get out of this carriage? I’m afraid I’m not feeling too well.”

“Of course. We’ll stop to rest right away.” he said, still seating in his usual, most inappropriate way. He had been doing that for most of the two weeks they had been on the road: he’d ride inside the carriage with her all day and tried to start a conversation every few hours. Lysandra answered shortly and did her best to keep her focus on the view; but if she had to be honest she would rather talk to him. She found the man fascinating for some reason, and most appealing, which was frustrating considering he was her owner now.

_ “You will not be his slave.” _ she could hear her brother saying a few days before Antony had arrived to take her away to another State, but a childish part of her couldn’t help but compare it to that. It was unfair, to be passed down from one man to the other to be taken care of, like a burden nobody wanted, like she was too deft to fend for herself.

...Well, maybe she was too skittish to survive on her own for too long -she had grown used to the niceties her father’s small fortune bought-- but she liked to think she was smart enough to depend of others very little.

And nobody liked to be a burden.

“I don’t wish to stop, Monsieur.” she finally gathered the courage to look at him, and had the urge to bite her lip upon making contact with his dark, all knowing eyes. “I’d prefer to ride.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” he asked slowly, still not moving. There was a dark stain on the seat he took, from putting up the same boot clad foot on it every day. The arm that usually rested there moved so that the hand attached to it could scratch his beard. He didn’t have that when he first showed up at her father’s home, but it was growing, and Lysandra hated how much she liked it. 

“I would.”

“How much?”

“Very much.”

He looked like someone who had been plotting with Lucifer himself. He leaned forward, his elbow supporting his weight. He looked like he was about to tell her a secret, and without thinking about it she also leaned in a bit.

“What would you do?”

“What?”

“In exchange of letting you ride the horse.” he said, nodding to the door. Outside, she could faintly hear some of the mercenaries he had hired to protect them talking. He placed a hand to her knee “Would you be willing to ride something else first?”

Her hands clenched over the edge of the seat, and she felt her face grow hot. Damning consequences, her right hand flew to the sleeve of her left arm and her fingers slid underneath the fabric. Quick as the wind, she pulled out a small dagger and put it to his neck.

To her utmost frustration, he seemed more amused than scared or angry.

“I may be a bastard, Monsieur, but I do have  _ some  _ honor;” she pressed the blade further into his flesh and saw a thin line of blood falling down. “which is more than I can say for you.”

Slowly, he began to laugh, uncaring for the blade at his neck. His hot hand left her knee, and he leaned back once more, crossing his arms over his chest and looking her over with new consideration.

“You have plenty of fire in you, don’t you, Gattina?”

“Enough to burn that silly city of your to the ground.”

“Strong claim. Florence is mighty.”

“So am I.”

He chuckled, but there was no malice in his eyes.

“I believe you are, but we’ll have to see if my father agrees.” he shrugged. “He’s a good man but he can boring and old-fashioned sometimes.”

She lowered the dagger, but kept a strong grip on it.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing of ill. He means well.”

“Then he must be your opposite.”

Antony snorted.

“In some ways, yes.”

Lysandra shrugged.

“Perhaps he won’t feel the need to be old fashioned around me.” she hoped. “People always change their beliefs at convenience.”

“That does tend to be true.” he agreed, and then nodded to her weapon. “May I see it?”

She hesitated, but his face had softened and he was back to his usual self, so she decided to hand it over. In any case, there was always the one tied to her calf.

Antony took it with a respect she hadn’t thought him capable of, and held it up to what little light they had to inspect it. 

It was as long as most daggers and rather thin, the blade stretching out up to a pointy end, flowers and vines carved into it. The handle was simpler, it was dark and plain, smooth enough to make it feel good against the flesh but not too smooth so that it’d easily slide out of grasp.

“It’s very fine work.”

“It was a present, for my tenth birthday.”

“From your father, I presume.”

“You presume correctly.” she said, clearing her throat as to be rid of its knot. God, she still wanted to cry when thinking of him.

“Most fathers prefer to gift fabric for dresses, or jewelry even.”

“My father wasn’t like most men.”

“That’s true.” he handed it back over, handle first, and she took it. He pointed at her left forearm with a finger. “How do you hide it there?”

“I have a small gauntlet tied here.” she said, showing him the front of her forearm, pressing her fingers into the fabric. “Can you see the knot underneath the sleeves?”

Antony narrowed his eyes, his face coming closer to her arm until she could feel his hot breath on it. She did her best not to think on it. 

“I see it. Is it leather?”

“Only the base upon which the dagger rests.”

He looked up.

“Why?”

Lysandra looked down, wishing she could show him in a way that didn’t involve anything improper, despite her growing desires for such things.

“Well, the leather is nice but I can’t tie it into knots like I do with my sleeves up here, and the base is only wide enough for the dagger because I don’t want it to be noticable, so my father cut some stripes of cotton.”

“Does it hold?”

She nodded.

“Yes, but I have to change the fabric every once in a while because it shrinks, and sometimes it’s hard to put it back in because it gets caught in the sleeve.”

“Yes, but it’s still is rather ingenious. I honestly didn’t see it there, and I’ve been looking closely.”

She ignored the last part and smiled, genuinely.

“That’s the purpose. And yes, my father was quite smart.” she looked down at her dagger and pressed her thumb to the tip. It pinched, but no blood came out. “He worked hard to make me equal to any man.”

“You miss him.”

She swallowed, and said nothing, for if she did she’d break down crying, and that was the last thing she wanted to do in the presence of Antony.

Lysandra heard him sigh.

“Let’s head outside. I’d like to ride as well.” he said, and her head snapped up. “Being locked up all day has been driving me insane. I don’t know how you women do it all the time.”

“Me neither; and then men wonder why we poison our husbands.”

He snorted and yelled at the driver to stop.

The carriage shook as it came to a stop, and Lysandra felt her body sway. She was suddenly burning with the need to head out, breathe some fresh air and feel the breeze on her face as she speed up on Venus.

The door opened and she jumped, not caring for letting Antony out first so he could hold his hand out to her.

With her body half outside, she felt his hand lightly pulling at her skirts.

She turned, startled.

“I wouldn’t have laid with you, even if you had agreed.”

She frowned, taking a moment to remember their conversation and how it had started.

“Why not?” it was a relief to know he hadn't meant his suggestion; she liked to think he was better skilled with his tongue, unlike all those other idiots who had assumed the bastard girl to be an easy hunt.

His dark eyes darkened further, and Lysandra’s hand clenched around the carriage door as to keep her in place and not jump him.

His hand pressed further and closed around the back of her knee, hot as fire despite all the layers of fabric in between.

“The day I have you, Gattina, it will be because you want to, not in exchange of some insignificant courtesy.”

Oh.

There was much she wanted to say regarding his statement, but the relief that flooded through her upon his last words was like walking into a river during a hot day.

Grateful she smiled at him for a second time and headed out, asking one of the men for her horse.

  
  
  
  



End file.
